


The Greenest Grass

by Yukurimi



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Female Friendship, Friendship, Witch Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28156044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukurimi/pseuds/Yukurimi
Summary: Where could a witch be happier than in her own made-up wonderland?This is a harder question than it sounds to ask, to say nothing of answering it.
Relationships: Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaniJayNel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaniJayNel/gifts).



There’s a witch in town, people say—and for once, that claim doesn’t get you called a drunkard or a liar. She’s quite a sight, everyone says. Jet-black hair that’s longer than she is. Skin as pale as ice, one eye that’s dark, faded silver—but the other one’s the brightest, deepest gold anyone’s ever seen, like it’s sucked all the color out of the rest of her.

And she lives actually a little ways away from the town itself. She likes her privacy, everyone says. Once in a while she’ll come out and then she’s not so horrible, but there’s nothing she hates more than uninvited guests, and nobody’s ever been an invited one. She’s got this… people call it a garden, but it sounds more like a jungle. There’s trees and flowers prettier than anything anyone’s seen anywhere, but there’s a maze of bramble and thorns surrounding her little cottage, where those trees and those flowers can come alive and grow teeth. There’s a path through it, but only she knows how to find it, and if anyone else tries, one wrong step and…

They don’t actually agree on what happens. There’s some people who swear she’ll leap out of the ground with a shriek so frightening it scares you right to death, and there’s some who’ll say that all those plants she grows are made of blood and bones, and that if you find her in a foul enough mood she’ll grind you up and make a lovely flower out of what’s left.

The people saying those things, of course, all came perilously close to experiencing such a thing but were clever or deft or charming enough to avoid the worst of it. And of course they insist that anyone less capable would have been snatched right up and turned to paste or some such.

***

Right outside Historia’s cottage, there was a tree. It was massive, bigger than any she had ever seen outside of her garden. Its trunk, pale and gnarled, twisted high into the air. Branches jutted out in every conceivable angle, reaching outwards, forking and dividing, like a thousand winding serpents frozen in place. Many were thin, spindly things, but they seemed untouched by the wind. Flowers bloomed in this tree all year round, in reds so vivid and dark they looked cold and black in the tree’s deepest shadows. But it was not so dark now, and as the fading sunlight fell on these flowers their petals twinkled and gleamed like polished rubies.

Historia sat in this tree’s shadow, a loaf of bread and a thin, small book pinched together in one hand. She’d come out there for a little break, some fresh air—it’d been a long, tiring day. But, she realized, she’d been out there for a while.

The tree was difficult to ignore, and it had a way of making her thoughts run in circles. She was always thinking of something, when she took the time to look at that tree. Sometimes it was just to play the game of what she saw in the twists and bumps and the trunk—often there were things that looked rather like faces, and she’d stare at them for a while trying to remember them for later.

Other times, well…

This wasn’t one of those other times. Historia’s eyes found a cluster of ridges that, with generous assistance from her imagination, looked quite like a woman’s face. A pretty one, Historia liked to think, with gentle eyes and a kind smile and soft, flowing hair. Yes, she liked the sound of that.

Distracted from the tree a moment by that thought, she looked away. She nibbled on her bread, then picked up her book and thumbed through it carelessly to a random page. It took her a moment to decipher her handwriting, but a little drawing she’d made in the margin clued her in to what she was reading about.

It was a witch, of course. Nobody knew her name, but everyone agreed her hair was black as black could be, and that by day she was pleasant, friendly and kind, but she had no dreams of her own. So when night fell, she turned into mist and went on the prowl. 

Or something. Historia couldn’t recall exactly where all this came from. She’d heard stories but also made up some of her own, and sometimes she forgot which parts were which.

But anyway. She stole dreams, this witch. Went into people’s heads and plucked them right out—who would even notice that such flighty, ephemeral things went missing? And all the dreams she collected, she wove together, until she had a tapestry as big as a house—and it was filled with castles and stars and kings and queens, giants and dragons and stranger, more fanciful things…

But nobody else saw all of that. And one day this witch decided that she was very, very tired—tired of what, exactly, nobody could say, because she never did—so she laid down and went to sleep but this time she stayed as mist.

Historia liked to think that she’d seen just about everything in the world, that witch, and a great many things from elsewhere. That she could talk for days on end about all the interesting things she’d seen. That every moment with her would be its own little adventure. But then, of course… nobody could talk to mist, could they?

The story made her sad, so Historia closed the book and set it aside.

But that not-quite-face she’d seen in the tree looked quite like how she liked to picture the black-haired witch…

She sighed. That kind of thinking was best done in moderation. It was just… hard to stop, sometimes. She forced down a few mouthfuls of bread before getting up, brushing herself off and hurrying inside. There was time for one more painting in the day; surely that would take her mind off of all those other things.

***

When Historia lifted her weary eyes away from the canvas to peer out her window, she saw a dark sky and decided she was finished. Time had flown right by. So with a tired smile, she set her brush down, stood up from her chair and stepped away from the canvas, then paused to yawn and stretch.

It’d been a long day, but she thought it’d be worth it. Maybe tomorrow she’d be able to… take a walk through her garden, eat something a little tastier than bread… that’d be nice.

Tomorrow was a thing to look forward to, so she smiled.

Then, finally, she looked at the canvas. She’d painted… a duck? Twice, actually. She squinted at the painting. It was rough, quick, edges blurring into one another. A short, small thing. Not worth the good paint—she didn’t have much of that handy.

But it looked like a duck. Not an actual one, though. This one was made of glass—at least at first, when it was dark and gloomy. But then she did it a second time and it was bright and warm, the duck swathed in orange like it was next to a campfire, and now it was a much more regular-looking duck.

Historia smiled. She pictured the light of a fire sort of melting the glass away, until the flesh and feathers underneath were free. It was a nice thought, that made her smile.

So she took the canvas off its easel and set it down flat on her table, and then she went to fetch a needle. Once she had one, she gave her thumb a prick and winced as beads of blood welled up. She turned her hand over and dropped a few onto the painting. They splattered, but then swirled and flowed like running water and blended into the paint, until she couldn’t see any blood at all—and then the paint glowed, all the brightest colors sparking and flaring up like currents of flame.

Her smile broadened. She leaned forwards, reaching down to press her fingers to the canvas. It felt very warm all of a sudden, like she was touching her own hand.

Then she pressed down and her hand slid inside it. Deeper and deeper she reached, until her fingers wrapped around something wet and soft. She pulled.

And then the paint sprang right off the canvas in a slurry of color. It spewed high into the air; Historia giggled, beaming at the fountain brought briefly to life in front of her.

Paint rained back down, but it vanished into the canvas, and when it was all gone suddenly there was a duck made of glass sitting atop a dry, pristine canvas on Historia’s table. She looked at it for a good long while; already she saw the imperfections she expected from something so rough, but they were small things. She still thought it pretty. Surely she wouldn’t be the only one.

So she picked it up; it felt cool to the touch, as glass should have. Carefully she carried it over to her fireplace—which didn’t have any wood in it, but she kicked the stone rim and suddenly a fire sprang up.

She knelt in front of it and held out the duck, watching closely. It twinkled and glimmered; sparks of color bounced off of it, and it glowed orange and red under the fire’s light. Soon it began to move.

But it was still glass. And, she saw soon enough, its movements mechanical, repetitive. It was still cool, as glass should have been.

Her smile faded, her lips pinching. She closed her eyes and made a quiet sigh.

“I should have seen that coming, shouldn’t I?” she murmured as she opened her eyes, tilting her head and peering at the duck.

Which didn’t answer her. It couldn’t. Only a fool would expect something more.

Historia stood up and moved back to her table, watching the duck go still and lose its glow as it moved away from the fire. She did still think it pretty, but it was… missing something. And then her eyes wandered over to the pile of trinkets and baubles she already had. One less wasn’t going to be a problem.

“Well,” she said as she sat back down, sucking in a breath, “I guess I’ll have to make something else out of you some other time.” She held the duck up in front of her, gazing into its glassy eyes.

For a moment she wanted to run back to the fire, just in case… no, she didn’t want to think too hard about why. Best to get it over with.

She pressed both her hands to the duck and focused. Images flashed through her head, disorienting her. Suddenly she was painting the duck all over again, just like she’d been a few moments ago. Then there was a flash of light that swallowed the duck up and made her blink. When she opened her eyes again her hands were holding a lump of a dry, flaky substance. It shifted in color as she looked at it; it was quite coarse, rough to the touch like sandpaper, but it held a million colors just the same.

Her appetite for painting seemed to have left her, for the moment. She put the pigment into a glass jar and set it aside.

For the next few moments she wondered if she was tired enough to try falling asleep, but then a piercing chime like that of a bell rang out from a flower growing out of her door. She flinched first, then slumped her shoulders and buried her face in her hands and sighed. Why did she always feel so much sleepier when she had things to do?

“Go away,” she mumbled as she rubbed at her eyes. It didn’t help—another chime came soon after, quieter but just as insistent—but at least she could say she tried.

It took a third chime to get her to stand up. She shuffled over to the door. A hat, eccentric and broad-rimmed, hung there on a hook; she picked it up without thinking about it, but the texture felt not quite how she remembered it, and that drew her eye downwards.

The hat was rotting. The rim cracked and peeled and was spotted with blotches of murky color, and the edges blurred and faded, like paint blended with the background. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut and hissing under her breath.

She still put it on—she’d feel quite silly for not trying—but as expected she hardly looked any different. So she’d have to make another, in the morning. Ugh.

And then the stupid flower rang at her again. She groaned, yanking the hat off and tossing it away and to the ground. She couldn’t not go out, but no hat…

Well, it was nighttime. She could keep her distance.

That would have to do. She pulled her door open and hurried out into the night.

It was dark in her garden, but she had a light to show her the way. It dripped out from a drooping tree branch shortly after she left her cottage, like a drop of dew if dew was made of little stars. The light flitted off through the foliage surrounding her cottage, and with clenched teeth Historia followed. Bushes and vines curled and peeled out of her path as she walked; trees bent and twisted and wriggled to give her room. The light trailed a ways ahead of her, but never left her sight.

After only a few minutes of nighttime chill, Historia wondered ruefully why she’d made the place so darn big. Grandeur and theatrics were more witchlike, she supposed, but she could do with a shorter walk.

But soon she was close to garden’s edge, and plants parted just slightly to reveal her destination. There was a figure, bound in tangling vines. A dark hooded cloak hid most of their features and demeanor.

Historia let out a quiet but exasperated sigh. Sometimes she wondered if she’d get better results with something crueler than tying people down. Nothing to be done for it now, though.

She stopped at a safe distance. Creaks and rustles came from all around her; trees shifted their leaves to block the moonlight, bushes pressed together in front of her. With the darkness, surely she was concealed enough.

Still, best to get it over with. She swallowed, took a deep breath, then threw back her head and let out the loudest, shrillest cackle she could.

“You,” she announced, coiling her arm before thrusting it and an accusatory finger forwards, “are not supposed to be here!”

The figure jerked and lurched—or tried to, restricted as they were by the vines wrapped around their arms and legs. Their face was still obscured by their hood, but they seemed to face Historia’s general direction. A pause, and then they spoke. “So you are real, then.” They had a low, raspy voice; Historia couldn’t make up her mind whether it sounded like a man or a woman.

But she knew they weren’t a local. Good. That made things a little bit safer. “I am quite real,” Historia declared, puffing out her chest and making a grandiose gesture that ended with her hand resting on a cocked hip. “And that’s quite bad news for you.”

The intruder flinched backwards. Their hood dropped, as though their head lowered. “I didn’t do anything,” they said. “Just… wanted to take a look, that’s all.”

Historia cackled again, then leaned forwards and flashed a coy grin. “Liar’s bones make delicious soup, did you know that?”

“… No.” They spoke slowly, their voice surprisingly steady as they kept trying to draw back. “No, I didn’t. But I’m not—” They trailed off, shaking their head. Suddenly a dry, mirthless laugh crawled out from that hood. They made a faint shrug of their shoulders. “Okay, I guess I am a little.”

Historia frowned, though she tried to keep it subtle. This person, they… didn’t seem very frightened. Did that mean maybe…

She shook her head, looking away briefly. No. No, whoever this was, they were just like anyone else. That was the safe thought. She lifted her head, spreading her lips to make a wide, toothy smile. “Then it’s quite fortunate that you’ve caught me at this hour,” she hissed. “As much as I’d like to, I just don’t think I can be bothered to cook you up. But you’d best hurry; I might change my mind.”

The intruder lifted their head. For a moment Historia thought she saw the gleam of dark eyes peering at her from under that hood, but then they turned away and she saw not a hint of a face. “So were you going to…?” The intruder tugged at the vines binding their limbs.

Warmth bloomed in Historia’s cheeks. How could she have forgotten to… no matter. With a snap of her fingers she called for the vines to retreat, and they slunk away into the shadows.

For a moment the intruder lingered; it was a tense moment, and Historia watched them warily, but then they turned and hurried away without another word.

Historia watched silently until she was sure she was alone. Then she slumped her shoulders and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “ ‘Liar’s bones’,” she muttered, kneading her brow. “What am I talking about?”

No matter, she told herself. It had worked. Maybe. Whoever that person was, they hadn’t seemed all that frightened. Why would—they left, that was all that mattered, wasn’t it? And if they hadn’t thought she was real…

Probably they were just someone passing through. Staying for a day, maybe, then they’d be gone forever.

Historia bit her lip. She rubbed at her eyes; they felt moist all of a sudden. She blinked, stared at the ground, tried not to notice the churning heat in her gut. Quickly she turned around and began hurrying back to her cottage.

Along the way she noticed all kinds of pretty sights. Colors she’d never seen anywhere outside her garden. Everything was so beautiful there, just the way she liked it.

It was the best place for her.

She told herself that many times on the walk back. Because it was true. It was.

When she approached her cottage, she looked up at the tree. Its shadow reached far and wide, swallowing up everything around it. And though there was no wind, suddenly she heard a quiet piping like that of a flute. She paused, closing her eyes and trying to block out everything else that she could. She didn’t think, didn’t feel, didn’t look, just listened to that slow, undulating tune.

Soon she felt her conscious fading. Her head lolled; she slumped forwards, and the tree was there. The night was cold, so the tree was warm, and its bark soft as her skin. She laid back and listened until a dreamless slumber took hold of her.


	2. Chapter II

The witch is making an appearance today. It’s plain to see long before she’s there. Already there’s a bit of a crowd of people who don’t have anything better to do—and even the ones who do, their eyes often lift and wander and peek out the window.

One or two people look nervous, maybe. Occasionally someone looks at the gathered crowd and shakes their head with a grimace or a scowl and hurries away. But they’re far from the norm.

No, these people… they’re excited, most of them. It’s like another world; who’s ever been excited to see a witch?

But they are. It’s a cheery day. Like a little festival. Happy chattering everywhere.

And then off in the distance there’s a rumble. And a wagon comes careening down the road, patchwork and ramshackle like it was built by a carpenter who’d never seen a right angle in his life. It looks like it might fly apart into a pile of planks and nails if someone breathed on it too hard, but it bounces and jostles as it’s dragged by two goats just as wooden as it is, and it’s sturdy as a rock.

There, perched atop it, is the witch, cackling merrily as her ride pulls her along. She looks just like everyone said she would; she’s a tiny imp of a woman, with black hair that’d drag on the ground if it weren’t billowing and streaking behind her, and a great big hat that sits askew on her head and crooks and bends into a jagged spiral shape above her.

She flings her hands up with a whoop. In a flash two hawks speed out from the poofy sleeves of her gown. But these are hawks unlike any other; they’re made of paint, churning and bubbling as they glide and swoop. They drip and melt and spray when they flap their wings. Mist descends, bursting with the colors of a dozen rainbows as people cheer and beam.

It’s about once a month she visits them, people say. For some of them there’s nothing they look forward to more.

Because when her goats bring her to a stop and people rush over to meet her, she’s…

Well, she’s wild and excitable. She grins and waves to people. And in the back of that wagon, she’s got a wealth of treasures and trinkets. She’s got candles that burn pink and light up when you stare at them, slips of paper that make whatever words you write on them spring off the page and walk themselves to whoever you’d like it sent to. Glass spheres with a bit of night sky in them, so you can look at the stars in the afternoon. Lanterns that sing bawdy songs.

It’s not clear exactly what she takes in return, but if you throw her something pretty, something fancy, or something she can eat, she’ll give you a little splash of enchanting wonder in return.

What’s… what’s not to like about that? 

Of course everyone loves her.

She doesn’t love them back though, does she? She spots faces in the crowd, clearly knows some of these people. But not once does she say a name. Not once does she come down from her perch.

And how long is she going to stay there? An hour? Two? Then she’ll go back to her garden, of course, and she won’t want anything to do with anyone for a while. 

Makes sense. How’s she supposed to dazzle and amaze them if they see her every day? 

They’re giving her food. Does that mean she doesn’t make any of her own?

Only a witch can afford to be a haughty beggar.

***

Historia made her last smile and wave of the morning before turning to face the road ahead. She waited for a little while, staying still and silent for some time, just in case anyone had followed her. Eventually she peeked back, and when she saw nobody, she let out a long, relieved sigh.

Her whole body ached. Nothing felt good. Her throat hurt from doing a witch voice for so long. She’d had quite enough of being gawked at. That ridiculous wagon bounced her around all over the place. And she’d had to wake up earlier than usual, to paint that stupid hat.

She really wanted to just yank it off already. But she wouldn't . Not until she was back home, just in case.

If she looked past a lot of things, though… she supposed it hadn’t gone so badly. She’d have to sift through all the takings in the evening, but it hadn’t seemed like a bad haul. And she’d gotten a handful of odd looks, sure, but…

Nobody had thrown anything at her. Screamed at her. Tried to hit her.

She couldn’t actually remember when any of those things had happened. Had they ever? She was sure they had. At least once, each of them. But they were so rare. Hardly things to be frightened of.

There was thinking that, and there was believing it. She tried to find something else to think about. What was there? Something on the tip of her…

Oh, yes. She’d not seen any new faces. Or she thought not, anyway. Not everyone she saw was very close. So that person from last night, whoever they were… they must’ve been gone, right? Ran off to… some other place, probably far, far away. 

That wasn’t a very good thing to think about either. Historia hugged her knees to her chest, slumping forwards. She was going to be doing a lot of painting today. After a long rest.

***

She must’ve been even more tired than she’d thought. When her eyes fluttered open, she saw the warm light of an afternoon, and felt the gentle tickling of the grass she’d curled up on. She lay still for a while, then slowly lifted herself up and yawned. Her hat was on the ground in front of her, she noticed; she plucked it up, delayed just long enough to sight her cottage, and chucked it somewhere in that direction, taking her eyes off it as soon as she could.

Her hair hung down in front of her face, but it was yellow and of a reasonable length. And when she glanced down at herself, the gown she wore was plain and soft pink instead of dark and clingy.

“Much better,” she mumbled to herself. She hauled herself up to her feet. Her wagon was a little ways away from her. She shuffled over—taking her time, because the grass felt so lovely on her bare feet—and started sifting through the pile of stuff she’d accumulated throughout the morning. A fair bit of it was junk, which had its place, but she felt like treating herself a little.

Eventually she found a small wooden carving of a wolf. Beautiful workmanship. She picked it up and turned it over, running her fingers over it.

In her mind’s eye, she was hunched over a table. The sun had gone down hours ago, and now there was naught but a lantern for light. Her hands were large and rough, but moved with steady care. The wood in front of her took shape. Slowly. Better to be correct than quick. When the piece was done, it was looked over with a gentle eye—and admired, even long after the appraising was complete.

She blinked and she was back in reality. The carving shimmered faintly now, as if coated in a shower of little diamonds. Historia smiled. “Yes,” she said, “you’ll do quite nicely.”

A quick trip into her cottage for a canvas—she had a nice small one that fit in the palm of her hand but sprang up to a bigger size when she gave it a thwack—and a brush and a needle and she was ready to wander her garden. Things farther away from her seemed to rot faster, so she went close to the edge before really looking too closely.

Finally, amidst a patch of lush grass, she spied a flower. Something like a lily, but of course this one was more intricate and vibrant, the petals’ tips bending in graceful curls and marked all over by faintly glowing patterns. The sight of it tickled her heart and tugged the corners of her lips upwards. But the stem was desiccated, holes chewed into its sides, bits of it peeling off and blurring.

This one would do. She moved closer and sat down in the grass, then set most of her things down and cradled the wolf carving in her hands. She pressed her palms together—a flash of light, and suddenly she was holding a globe of paint. It was buttery smooth, glossy and twinkling in the fading sunlight. Her lips spread into a smile. This, she thought, would make something quite pretty. The offering had been made with care, so she would have to respond in kind.

So she stared at the flower, long and hard. No detail escaped her—a few, her mind refined and improved, but none were ignored. She burned it all into her head, and then she started to paint, shearing off a chunk of the globe with the edge of her brush and smiling at how smoothly it transferred to the canvas. Yes, this was something she was going to savor.

And she did exactly that, for quite some time. Eventually she looked up and realized with a rueful smile the sun was setting. 

Which made her feel a little bit guilty; she hadn’t intended on spending the whole afternoon on a single flower. And if she’d moved a little more quickly, she could’ve been done with it. But she’d enjoyed it, and the rest of the garden wasn’t going to disintegrate overnight.

The walk back to her cottage was a pleasant one. So many sights and smells she’d almost forgotten she’d put there. It was a calm, gentle place.

Most of it was, anyway. Then she saw that tree beside her cottage, and it was one of those times where she looked at the deep red flowers sprouting from its branches and her mind wandered to uncomfortable places. When she noted that she must have painted that tree—how else could a tree like that have ever grown?—but it never seemed to rot, not like everything else she made. 

For a moment, as she walked past it, she imagined herself reaching out to touch it. It made her shiver. Frightful things flashed through her head in a slurry. No, she told herself. Not every question needed an answer. 

Just go inside, and stop looking at it, she told herself. Things were better that way. She wasn’t having such a bad afternoon; no reason to go and ruin it.

A little while later, she had a full belly and was sitting by her fireplace, and that book full of tales about witches was resting open in her lap. She’d drawn in that book, too, not just written. Witches, of course—and they usually had a companion, when she drew them. 

Nobody in particular, of course. Every witch she’d ever heard of had always been a solitary, lonely person. But if there happened to be one who… found a friend one day… a friend who was maybe a bit on the shorter side and had nice soft blonde hair, well…

That was sort of a happy thought, wasn’t it? 

Drawings were just thoughts that were a little bit more real. So they were even happier, and warmed her almost as much as the fire behind her did. 

The flower on her door rang. Historia jumped, then slumped her shoulders and sighed. One of these days she was going to leave someone tangled up overnight, just to see what would happen.

… No, she wasn’t.

She threw her book gently onto her bed, then hurried out the door. It took her a little while to find her hat in the dark, and a little while after that to get around to putting it on, but eventually it did its thing and made her look infinitely more witchlike—which was better, of course. 

Then she could finally set off, with a light guiding her way. Off she went, weaving between flowers and bushes and trees until finally she neared her destination. And she stopped, abruptly. 

There was a cloaked figure a little ways in front of her, hauntingly familiar. Surely it couldn’t have been…?

For a long moment she grappled with two peculiarities, weighing them against each other. Was it more outlandish to think that the same person had come back, or that two different people looked so similar?

Only one way to find out, she concluded. “So,” she said, projecting and deepening her voice, “what are you doing here this time?”

The intruder jerked as upright as they could at the sound of her voice. But it seemed as though they looked away, and towards the ground. “You know…” The voice indeed sounded quite familiar. Likely the same person from last night, then. “I’m… not so sure of that myself, to be honest.” Their voice cracked and wavered, marked all over with uncertainty and hesitation. Then they looked up, and under the light Historia could just barely make out thin lips and a narrow, bony jaw. “Didn’t have anything better to do, I guess.”

Tightness came to Historia’s chest. She sucked in a breath, folding her arms across her chest. “Then you must be quite unfortunate indeed,” she said, articulating each syllable forcefully.

A long, thoughtful pause. Those lips twitched almost as if they wanted to smile but didn’t know how. Then they opened, but they just stood still for a bit, and as they clamped shut the hood drooped down and hid them.

Historia cocked her head, turning her nose up. “Is something the matter?”

“Hmm?” Another pause, then laughter. It was dry and raspy, and Historia couldn’t tell who or what it was aimed at. “Just trying to work out whether I agree with you or not.” The figure slumped forwards. “Never really talked to a witch before. Guess I’m not all that good at it.”

Historia’s mouth did a thing not unlike what she’d seen a moment ago. She stared at the figure in front of her. Something about those words they’d just said… suddenly she felt hollow, like a part of her had just been carved out with a knife. Or maybe it’d always been missing and she was just now noticing it.

It hurt. What was happening?

“… No,” she said. It was a struggle to keep her voice steady, but she tried to endure. “No, I don’t think you are.” The intruder looked up at her again, and she jerked her eyes away. “And I think I’ve had my fill of you.”

Another pause. Her pulse quickened; if it weren’t her own home she was standing in, she’d likely have turned round and fled on the spot. Her fingers dug into the flesh of her arms.

“Yeah. Yeah, I… I bet you have.” There it was again. Something about those words dug into Historia’s head and made twisting aches well up in her stomach. But they were harsher this time. The effect, but also the words themselves. “I’ll go, then. If you’ll let me.”

That was exactly what Historia wanted, of course. She’d let them go, and then… and then they’d be gone.

So why wasn’t she doing it? Just do it.

She did. A click of her fingers and the vines retreated, peeling away. The intruder rose, unfurling slowly…

And stood still.

“Why…” The intruder shook their head, took a long breath. Their hands balled up by their sides. “Why are you wearing that hat?”

Historia’s blood turned to ice. She stood still, teeth clenched. Her mouth opened but lingered; she was trying desperately not to think about a lot of things. “Lots—lots of people wear hats,” she said.

“Not ones like yours.”

“Well I’m not—!” Historia clamped her lips shut the second she realized how her voice had raised. Then a moment later she decided she didn’t care. She shrieked, thrust out a trembling hand curled into a claw.

Trees uprooted, the bark of their trunks splitting open to form gaping, fanged maws. Bushes shuffled forwards, thorns unsheathing from their branches, which lifted like serpents.

The intruder leapt back, almost toppling over in their haste. Even when they steadied themselves at a safe distance, Historia could faintly hear heavy breaths.

She lowered her hand. The plants around her held their ground. She glared at the figure in front of her. “Leave,” she said.

No more words were spoken. The intruder turned on the spot and hurried away at a brisk pace, and soon the garden was silent.

Historia glanced upwards. As she turned to head back, she reached up and plucked her hat off of her head. She stared at it as she walked.

All manner of faces visited her thoughts. Angry ones. Fearful ones. Suspicious ones. She didn’t particularly like any of them.

But if she knew they were coming…

Surely that would numb their bite.

When she was at her doorstep, she paused. The hat lung limply in her hand. She held it up, running her eyes over it. The color was all off. Shadows fell on it in strange places, made it look more and more flat the longer she stared. And it felt ragged and damp to the touch. Sloppy. So sloppy. It wasn’t that it was hard—well, maybe it was. But not in the same way some things were hard. She never seemed to get it right, though, and there was no reason she couldn’t. It just didn't happen.

Visions came to her, as she touched the hat. She saw herself, stiff and wooden and listless, sitting in front of a canvas with a brush she didn’t have the will to move. Everything she did came by force. It took quite some time, and not because it was hard.

The hat fell from her hands and she blinked the visions away. As she slipped into her cottage, she wondered how many times she’d made it.

The answer came quickly: too many to count. That part, she handled well enough. But the next question wasn’t so easy. How many more?

By the time she got to her bed she was already crying. She thought about all kinds of things. Most of them weren’t good thoughts. She wished they could all just go away, but they just kept coming. Her book was still on the bed, she saw, open to the same page with the little drawing in the corner. She didn’t know how to feel about that.

It did give her something to fixate on, though. Did it help? She wasn’t sure. Earlier it’d made her feel so good, but now it just made her want to cry some more. Why was that?

Someone could tell her. She didn't know who, but... but someone could. Someone, somewhere out there... probably very, very far away from her. If only she could be so far away herself.

Where would she go, though? The world was quite a big place, and most of it wasn't nearly as pretty as where she was now. 

It took quite a while for her to finally fall asleep.


	3. Chapter III

The witch’s garden is a strange place. More of a jungle, it’s so big and dense. It’s on the edge of a forest, and from a distance it’s hard to say where one ends and the other begins. Hardly anything about it feels natural, but it’s organized about as well as something wild would be. Things move when you take your eyes off them—and when you look again, they’re eerily still, as though there weren’t a hint of wind.

These eyes of mine see right through any night I’ve come across. Here, though… it’s not just a matter of darkness. Things blur and blend together as they get farther away. It’s like walking through a dream, where only the things right by me at a given moment are actually real.

I’m taking my time. It… doesn’t seem dangerous—looks like she might’ve only gotten around to making the borders all grabby and stuff. Must’ve figured nobody would be stupid enough to go any further.

Can’t blame her. It’s a reasonable thought.

That’s her cottage, over there. Next to that big tree, with flowers redder than blood. She makes things—this has gotta be where she keeps them, right? All the things that’re too nice to give away. 

… What’s that sound?

Crying. She’s crying.

Walk away. Just walk away. It’s not too late. It’s the smartest idea in the world.

… There’s a window. One peek.

She’s there, on her bed. Knees drawn up to her chest. No hat. Her hair’s shiny and golden, her skin smooth and fair. Pretty. She’s so pretty, like that. 

She’d barely be worth a second glance, if she were anywhere else. But she’s crying. Why? Is she… no, she’s… people like her. They do, right? What does someone like that have to cry about?

I run. Far away, quick as I can.

***

Historia awoke. She was lying on her side, messy hair hanging in front of her face. With a weary hand she brushed it aside as she lifted herself up.

Memories came to her in fragments. That visitor. Her garden. Anger, boiling and fierce. Flesh sloughing off in chunks. Paint in her hands, the smoothest and richest she’d ever seen. She shook her head. Some of that was a dream. It stirred up something quite unpleasant in her stomach, but it was nothing she hadn’t seen before.

Most of it. That person, the talk they’d had… she still didn’t know what to do. About that, or—well, in general, really.

She looked down at herself. Her dress was dark and damp in several blotches, as were the sheets of her bed. Footprints of tears, she realized. When she looked up and around, the room felt small, the air stagnant. A glimpse of that tree outside her window made her shove her gaze down to her hands, which trembled slightly in her lap.

Sometimes it occurred to her that this might be the place where she’d die.

Motion and purpose were the best cures. It took her a little while to find the will, but finally she dragged herself up onto her feet. Thinking about painting made her feel tired. She could afford a break. Probably. 

She shuffled around, trying not to look outdoors, until she had shoes on her feet, and then she hurried out the door keeping her eyes low. 

***

The town was… well, it was strange to her. Quite different, obviously. There was more noise, on paper, but it didn’t always feel that way. In her garden, if there was a crack, a rustle, a flicker, she knew. In the outside world, though, it was all so distant. Bustle and chatter everywhere, footsteps and creaking doors and half a dozen other things. But it all blended together into a muddled slurry, that slid in one of Historia’s ears and hopped right out through the other and then was gone without a trace.

Was that relaxing? Historia felt maybe it should have been. She felt quite certain none of the many dozens of people she passed knew her face at all—her actual one, anyway, not… not that other one she made up. Sometimes she felt entirely invisible.

But her thoughts proved restless as always. Someone smiled at her; she hadn’t realized it’d happened until it passed, she was in such a daze. The person drifted right past her, and when she looked at his back she couldn’t help but imagine a distasteful grimace. She swallowed, shaking her head. She could be such a fool sometimes. Often. Too often.

She made it all the way to the far side. The road stretched out in front of her, winding its way towards the horizon. There wasn’t anybody else on it, not right now. Historia moved and sat down on the grass beside it, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them.

Where did that road lead? Away from her garden, that was about as much as she could say. She knew a name, maybe. Of some place that it could take her to. What did a name actually tell her, though? Only enough to dream about, if that. 

Some people knew more. Some people who didn’t spend their whole life staring at a tree. Historia wondered what that was like. It… sounded nice, but it made her sad. She rubbed at her eyes, looked down at her hand and wished for… wished for something. What would do it? She didn’t know, but something would. 

Someone, maybe. 

She blinked back tears, lifting her head and looking very far ahead. The sky and the morning sun started to calm her a little. Clouds peaked up over the horizon, and looking at them and the grass and the road lulled her into a dreamy haven of imaginary brushstrokes.

They were pretty, those clouds. Not as pretty as things she could make. But pretty.

After a while, she stood up and dusted herself off. A long breath and she set off back the direction she’d come from, keeping her head low. It always seemed to take longer, going back. She never tried to walk more slowly, but somehow it seemed to keep happening.

When she reached the point where the road broke into a fork—one path leading towards that very familiar forest she dwelt in, one twisting away to some far-off somewhere—she came to an abrupt halt.

There was someone there. Sitting on a rock, staring at the forest. A… woman, Historia thought? Her clothes were baggy and haggard, and her dark hair in a jagged, messy ponytail. If she knew she was being watched, it wasn’t obvious. She just sat there. Looking into the distance. Maybe more, but it was hard to tell from behind.

Historia stayed very, very quiet and still, heart suddenly pounding in her chest. Would it… would it look odd, if she went down that path while someone was looking? Surely not—there were reasons to go to a forest that had nothing to do with being a witch.

She could turn back, maybe. Wander around for a while. Come back after. She didn’t… want to, but maybe that was easier…

That person on the rock, did she… did she look familiar…? 

No. Couldn’t be. What sense would that make?

That was just what she wanted to think.

Maybe.

What if it wasn’t?

She swallowed, hands wringing in front of her.

Was there any harm in… she wasn’t wearing her hat. Of course there wasn’t. What a stupid question. She should know better.

That stupid question kept her pinned where she stood for a good long while. Finally she took a deep, quiet breath and moved closer.

“Hello,” she said once she was close enough. “What’re you—?” The woman lurched to face her with a flinch. Startled, Historia jumped back. “Sorry,” she blurted. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

The woman didn’t say anything. Just looked at her, then back towards the forest. Her lips pursed together tightly, and she sucked in a sigh, leaning forwards to rest her chin on her palm, elbow propped up on her knee. 

Historia frowned. “Is… something wrong?”

The woman on the rock looked away, scowling at the ground. She scratched at her ear with short, ragged fingernails. For a little while Historia wondered if maybe she should just walk away, but then...

“Ymir.”

Historia blinked. Her heart skipped a beat—but one word was so very little, so she told it to stop. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s my name.” The voice was raspy and low, slow and cautious. Ymir faced Historia, peering at her between strands of dark, dangling hair. “What’s yours?”

It was quite a struggle, listening to her talk. She sounded so, so familiar, and that put all kinds of questions racing through Historia’s head. Who and what and why and more, and she tried to keep them from showing on her face but that probably didn’t happen, so she looked at the ground and turned to hide her face behind her hair like she was extraordinarily bashful.

And then realized she’d been asked a question. And then what that question was. She blinked. Her mouth opened, gaped silently. “H—Historia,” she said. It felt quite strange, saying that word aloud. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d done that. Maybe it was the kind of strange that would seem better in hindsight.

“Historia?” Ymir nodded slowly, scratching at her neck. “That’s…” She quirked her lips, eyes darting away to some distant nowhere. “That’s a pretty name.”

She didn’t say anything after that. When Historia looked at her there were all kinds of things written on her face. She was thinking about something, from the looks of things. Quite intently, whatever it was, and her eyes drifted towards the forest again.

“Thanks,” Historia murmured. She followed Ymir’s gaze. “So—what’re you… doing? Out here.” She bit her lip, her face scrunching up.

“Hmm?” Ymir shot her a look, then hung her head and sighed again. “Nothing much, I guess,” she said. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

A laugh, dry and hollow and mirthless. “Too many things that… well, they don’t matter. Not really. It’s all a big waste of time.” Ymir shook her head, craning her neck and staring at the sky. She hissed a quiet curse, then stuffed her hand slipped into a pocket, and she glanced out the corner of her eye at Historia. “I’m clearly not cut out for this, but maybe you can help me puzzle something out.”

Historia frowned. “What—?”

“Catch.”

Ymir’s hand whipped out of the pocket, and something shiny flew through the air. Historia’s eyes widened. She darted to just barely catch it, and when she looked down at her hands there was a ring of polished silver resting there.

Her brow furrowed. The ring was… nice. Really nice. Smooth and shiny, carved with intricate patterns and set with a small ruby. Historia stared at it, then looked over at the gangly, disheveled woman who’d tossed it to her. The contrast couldn’t be starker—the list of questions grew. “What are you talking about?”

“Whether this is a really stupid idea or not.” Ymir lifted a hand to her face, dragging her fingernails down her cheeks. Her eyes, dark and narrow, dug deep into Historia’s. “That’s how it works, right?” she said, her voice turning low and breathy. “People give you things and you make them stuff, something like that?”

Historia frowned—and then her eyes widened and her pulse raced. She was frozen to the spot, heat flooding her. “You—” She swallowed, struggling to find her voice. “You—”

Ymir let out a quiet grumble. She hauled herself to her feet, grimacing as she rose and unfurled. “Yeah… and that might not even be the stupid part.” She curled her lip and looked away, raising a hand to cover her eye.

Whatever questions Historia may have eventually conjured up would have been silenced. A litany of sounds came. First a crunch, like rotten wood caved in by a hammer. Then a grinding screech, like metal scraping against stone—it sent a shiver through her, made the hairs on her neck stand straight and stiff. Ymir made a pained hiss, hunching and clutching at her face, but then she let out a quiet, satisfied groan as she straightened and lowered her hand.

She peeked back over her shoulder, turning her head only as much as she needed to. Her hair covered much of her eye, but already Historia saw leathery skin, pallid and bulged outwards by spiderwebs of dark, engorged veins. And there was a thing that resembled an eye only in shape. It was blacker than the night sky save for a dark gold iris.

Historia’s breath left her. She gaped, staring.

“I can, um…” Ymir scratched at her chin, that eye dipping towards the ground. “I can see better when I do that.”

A realization clicked into place inside Historia’s mind, but it was swiftly forgotten. After a moment she hurried forwards, though she stopped when Ymir flinched away. Historia lifted her hand slowly. “Can I…?”

Ymir stared back at her. Her current eye was almost impossible to read, but everything else was riddled with tension. Her hands balled up by her sides, her face seeming pale. But she nodded, slowly.

Historia moved closer, rising up on the balls of her feet. She reached up to brush Ymir’s hair aside.

Nothing about that eye looked human. It was like a stone set in Ymir’s skull, hard and dry. But Historia found she couldn’t look away. It seemed to suck her in, that eye, and the longer she looked at it the more it seemed like a stolen shard of sky—there flecks of color that reminded her of faintly twinkling stars, blotches marring that golden iris that made it resemble a full moon. Her lips spread into a smile, and a light giggle came tumbling out. Fancy and wonder took hold of her; she stared and dreamed of brushstrokes that might bring a thing like that onto a canvas.

“Are you a…?” The question came out in a dreamy mumble.

Ymir turned away. “Don’t know. Don’t really care.” She spat those words out, quick and harsh. “It is what it is, doesn’t matter what you call it.” Long breath. “Not…” She swallowed, her lips compressing and her brow furrowing. When next she spoke, her voice was quiet and low. “Not as pretty as your thing, I know.” 

She reached up and covered her eye, then grimaced. More noises. A squelch, like someone stepping in mud, and a crack like bones breaking. Again Ymir hissed, and this time it wasn’t followed by anything different, when she lowered her hand and had a more normal-looking eye there—it went straight to Historia’s, focused and intent and… wavering, like she’d already made up her mind she was about to be hurt. 

Historia frowned. “It’s… different,” she murmured. Questions gathered on the tip of her tongue. “What else can you do?” was chief amongst them, but looking at Ymir’s expression, she wondered if maybe that was best left unspoken for now, so she kept it to herself.

She looked down at the ring in her hand. Touching it sent visions of painstaking care flashing through her head. It would make for something lovely indeed. “What would you like?” she said.

“What? Oh. Right.” Ymir pursed her lips, turning away. “Well. You’ve got more of imagination than I do, by the look of things. Why don’t you surprise me? Something pretty, maybe.”

“‘Something pretty’,” Historia repeated. Her fingers wrapped around the ring. “I can do that.” Ideas raced through her head already, but one in particular reared its head and made everything else seem trite and bland. “It’ll take me a little while. Are you… going to be here?”

“Well, actually…” Ymir scratched at her neck. Her eyes fell, her voice along with them. “I was wondering if maybe I could watch you work for a bit.”

Historia’s eyes lit up. “Oh.” She was surprised, a little, by how immediately alright with that she was. A smile came quickly and easily. “How am I supposed to surprise you if you see what I’m doing?”

That got just about the faintest approximation of a laugh she’d ever heard, and it didn’t seem at all genuine. “Just a little bit. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

“Alright.” Historia looked towards her garden and then set off in that direction, looking back after a moment to see if she was being followed. “Come on, then.”

***

Ymir didn’t stick around for long. Just a little while, and during that time she was very quiet and still. So much so that when she stood up and asked “Mind if I wait outside?” Historia jumped in her seat.

“No, go ahead,” Historia mumbled. She looked up from the foundations of a painting. Ymir was moving towards the door already, her back turned. But even without showing her face, her posture and gait made her look sullen.

Historia frowned. Ymir was the one who’d asked to be there. Why would she…?

It didn’t take long for her to decide she wasn’t going to get anywhere with that question. There was a lot she didn’t know yet, she supposed. That made her feel a certain way. Was she disappointed? Maybe. The people she dreamed and drew, they weren’t often bony things with strange eyes and brooding stares.

They also weren’t here, she noted as she looked out the door and watched Ymir looking around.

There was a small smile on her face, when Historia got back to work.

Time went by at a brisk, breezy gait. The paint she’d made from that ring was excellent. A few hours and she was plucking out a bracelet that shone and sparkled with the polished smoothness of things she’d spent a whole day on. It made her steps quick and bright as she hurried out the door.

Ymir was just outside, sitting cross-legged in the grass, slumped forward with her cheek mashed into a palm. For a moment Historia thought she might be asleep, but as soon as the door made the slightest creak Ymir twitched upright and glanced over her shoulder.

“I’m finished,” Historia said. “Do you want to see it?”

“… Yeah.” There was a moment’s hesitation. But soon Ymir was rising and unfurling. “Yeah, let’s see it.”

Historia moved closer and held the bracelet out. Most of it was silver, plain and simple but smooth to the touch and almost as glossy as a mirror. And then there was the front, where a spiderweb of dark, shiny strands held down a jewel of the deepest black, glowing faintly with the light of a thousand distant golden stars.

Ymir took it carefully, holding it in her hand. Historia studied her face carefully, but it was impossible to know what she was thinking. Her brow furrowed, though, and her eyes turned quietly wistful the longer she looked at it. “Huh.”

Historia frowned. “Do you not like it?” She glanced quickly over her shoulder. She hadn’t used all the paint that ring had made. “If you don’t, I can—”

“No. No, I do.” Ymir ran her fingers over it, then lifted her head and glanced to both sides. “I guess it’s just… different from what I was expecting.”

“Oh. Well.” Historia pursed her lips, then shaped them into a smile. “You did ask me to surprise you.”

That got about the closest thing to a smile that she’d seen on Ymir’s face—but it was a faint, half-hearted thing. “That’s right, I did.” She looked back to the bracelet, peering at it closely. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes flicked back up to Historia’s. “Any… particular reason? That you made this of all things, I mean.”

Historia tilted her head to the side. “Do you not recognize it?”

Ymir blinked. “What?” She studied the bracelet again, then shook her head after a long moment. “No. No, I don’t.” Suddenly she went still. Her fingers ran over the jewel, and… were they trembling? She swallowed, and when she spoke her voice cracked and wavered. Her eyes found Historia’s but didn’t stay in one place for long. “Should I?” Her voice cracked.

“Well, I…” Historia shrugged, looking away. “I might have embellished a little, I guess. I didn’t get a look at it for very long.”

She waited for a response that never came. “It’s your eye.” Historia lifted a hand to touch her left eye gently. “From earlier, when you… when you did that thing.”

“Oh.” A shudder rippled through Ymir’s face. Her jaw tightened, and she sucked in a breath. Quickly she looked away, covering her mouth and dragging her fingernails down her cheek. “Course it is,” she said. Her hair fell down in front of her face when she hung her head, but it seemed as though she was rubbing at her eye.

Historia stared for a long time, mouth hanging halfway open. “Did I—” She shrank back, her cheeks flushing and roiling heat welling up in her gut. “Do you not like it?”

“What?” There was a tremor in Ymir’s voice. She jerked back around to face Historia, and the eye that showed itself was red and blinking quickly. A short, sharp sniff. Ymir swiped her fingers roughly across her nose. “I do.” She held the bracelet in both hands, looking down at it with wide, haggard eyes. “Course I do. Who wouldn’t, right?”

“But then… why’re you…?”

Ymir’s shoulders slumped. She straightened herself slowly, then started turning in place, her eyes wandering the trees and bushes surrounding them. “You made all this too, I take it.”

“What?” Historia blinked, then shook her head. “What’re you saying?”

A pause. Then a laugh. A dry, forlorn chuckle. Ymir rubbed at her forehead, craning her neck. “You’re lonely, right? But you’re also the one who’s hiding.”

Historia froze. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. “I—” She struggled to find her voice. “I don’t…” Images flashed through her head. A hundred faces with a hundred voices drifted by her, floating into forgotten obscurity in a flash—and then there’s one with a black, golden eye. “I don’t think most people are very interesting.”

Ymir shot her a look. “Have you ever given one a chance?”  
The answer came quickly, but it took Historia a while to say it. “I—” The words felt weighty and knotted as they left her mouth. “No. No, I guess I haven’t.” One of those unpleasant feelings churned in her gut. She looked to the other woman—who seemed to be neither particularly warm nor particularly comforting, but… she was there. “Do you think I should?”

“I—” Ymir grimaced, then closed her eyes and sighed. “Look, I’m… not someone who can tell you stuff like that. Maybe you’re doing exactly what you should be doing, I don’t know. But…” She shook her head as her eyes opened. “Nevermind,” she added. Then a sigh, and a glance felled swiftly by a bashful turn, and she faced the path that lead away. “I’ve eaten up enough of  
your time, I think.”

“What—what’re you going to do?”

“Don’t know,” Ymir cracked her neck, reaching up to scratch her shoulder. “Get some sleep, for one. And in the morning… lotta places I haven’t been yet. Figure I’ll keep going till I find one.”

“You mean you’re…” Historia frowned, her heart sinking. “But why? Why would you…?”

“That’s a good question.” Ymir pursed her lips, then shrugged her shoulders. “I’m looking for something, I guess.”

“Looking for something? What is it?” Was it something that could be painted?

A grave forlornness fell over tYmir’s face. She shook her head, turning away. “Don’t know,” she said with a cracking voice. “Haven’t found it yet. I’ll… know when I do, though.”

Historia drew closer. “But… you could stay.”

The woman stood still, then lifted her arm to gesture at the garden. “This place is… really pretty, you know,” she said. Her voice took on a sharp, low tone. It didn’t sound happy at all. “I bet there’s a lot of people who wouldn’t mind being able to see it every day.”

Her arm tensed. Suddenly it made a cacophony of horrible cracks, like every bone in it splintered all at once. Her sleeve hid much of what happened, but the flesh on her hand sloughed off in bloody chunks that turned to ash as they fell. Underneath it was something pallid and leathery—more of a claw than a hand. And it screeched as it contorted. Mouths lined the fingers, full of teeth gnashing and scraping against each other.

Historia watched the process unfold with unblinking eyes. Each moment of it had seemed to catch her off-guard. She tried to grab every detail, burning whatever she could into her memory. Eventually she glanced at the woman herself; she’d expected maybe some signs of pain, and they were there. But the noise the woman made afterwards was more of a relieved one, like she’d scratched an itch she’d been enduring all day.

“But that’s… your thing,” she said. “And…” She hung her head, lowered her arm, sucked in a breath. “Well, I’m trying to be happy for you. I’m trying. But... I just don’t think it’s happening.” She hissed. “Figures. I’m not good at dealing with people who’re better off than me.” A ragged sigh. 

She straightened slowly. “And I don’t think you deserve that. This isn’t the place for me.” A pause, long and prickly, and then she started walking slowly.

Historia wanted desperately to say something, but the words didn’t come to her. Nothing felt right to her. Her lips pinched together in frustration, her hands balling up by her sides. Something would be better than nothing, she told herself, but what if it wasn’t?

She paused. Thought for a moment. Stepped forwards. “Wait,” she said. Her request was obeyed. “Why not?”

“What’s that?” Ymir didn’t face her.

“You said I don’t deserve it. Why not?”

“... Do you think you do? What have you done that’s so bad?”

“Well, I…” She’d thought for a moment she knew the answer to that, but she hesitated. When she did speak, it wasn’t really aimed at the other woman. “I… don’t know, do I?” Those words hung in the air, digging into her skull. Twisting discomfort gnawed at her, but perhaps there was a glimmer of resolve buried underneath all that.

“That’s your answer, then.” A pause. “I like you more without the hat.”

Nothing more was said. Historia stood in silence, watching until she was alone. 

***

It took her a while to work up the courage, but eventually Historia stood in front of that great big tree, leaning back to stare up at it. It towered over everything, swallowing up the sky and plunging her and her surroundings into shadow. Its flowers twinkled blood-red, and as Historia’s eyes wandered the knobby trunk she saw what might have been a myriad of faces all fused together.

She was always thinking of something, when she looked at that tree.

Sometimes she dwelled on its mysteries. Its longevity, mainly. Everything else she painted rotted. What could make this one any different? 

When she thought about that, she dreamed of hands slick with blood, of paint in her hands richer and deeper than any she’d made. Of a horrible absence. Maybe she’d meant to do it, or maybe not—but it would still have happened, just the same, and maybe that was even more terrifying a thought. Those dreams gnawed at her, sliced her to the bone with a dreadful chill.

That would do it, wouldn’t it? Perhaps. It was different from anything else she’d ever done.

But…

She looked at her hand. Not once, in a million years, would she have imagined that her flesh would peel away. That there’d be something desiccated and pale underneath—and she knew, with certainty greater than anything she knew, that she had not painted that woman, because she couldn’t paint things that felt and thought and spoke to her. So if something like that could exist, then, well…

The tree. Who said there could only be one answer?

Still she trembled, as she drew closer. Her breaths turned ragged. She wanted to run, and compromised by stopping to pace in circles. How could something be so simple, yet so challenging?

But eventually she made it. She stood in front of the tree, her hand reaching out. Fingers brushing against pale, rough bark. This wasn’t a mistake, she told herself. The way she’d been going, she’d practically convinced herself. The worst case was affirming what she already knew.

There was thinking that, and there was believing it.

She closed her eyes, pushed her palm forwards, and felt all that the tree had to offer. Everything. Nothing was going to escape her.

Bark.

She felt bark.

With a gasp she opened her eyes. With a shaky breath she pressed her other hand to the tree too. Bark. Still bark.

For a long moment she gawked. Then she hurried inside her cottage, found the first thing she could, pressed her palms to it. Visions came to her—she did not waste time parsing them, just darted back out to the tree and touched it again.

Bark.

She backed away, making gasps and stuttered mumbles. She paced in jittery circles, shaky hands lifting to her cheeks. Tears welled up in her eyes, though her steps were light and fluttery. 

Soon she was laughing, loudly and brightly, at how foolish she’d been.

***

The road stretched out in front of her, winding its way towards a horizon glowing with the light of a rising sun. Historia sat on a rock beside the road, hands clasped across one knee. There was a bag sitting next to her that held far more than it appeared, and weighed less than it should have.

She’d been there for a while now. The morning chill nipped at her, kept her awake.

Footsteps came from behind her. Grew louder, closer. Stopped.

She looked over her shoulder. “Good morning,” she said with a beam.

Ymir stared at her, tight-lipped. Her face looked pale, her eyes anxious and unsteady. “Hey,” she said. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Nothing much.” Historia traced lazy circles on the rock with her finger. “Just thinking. About you, actually.”

Something far from pleasant flashed through Ymir’s eyes. “Oh.” She folded her arms, looking away. “Do I want to know any more?” She sounded like she thought the answer to that was a swift, stout “No.”

But there was just a tiny sliver of silver peaking out under her sleeve.

“You were wrong.”

“… About what?”

“When you said you were trying to be happy for me. I…” Historia dreamed of trees and pain and… other things that felt distant and gone, and she felt like laughing and crying. The former happened first, and it drew a puzzled stare towards her. “I thought I knew,” she said. “Why I was there, I mean, and not… anywhere else. I think I…” She laughed again, rubbing at her eye. “No. I thought I deserved it.

“And… I was wrong.” It felt good to say that. Better to believe it. She smiled and shook her head and looked up at Ymir. “You made me realize that. And I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh.” Ymir’s mouth hung half-open briefly. She closed it, scrunched up her face. “I—” One of her hands balled up tightly, and she shrank away from Historia’s eyes. “You’re welcome,” she muttered. It sounded small and awkward and pathetic, and Ymir winced like she knew it and hated it.

Historia wondered how many times someone had ever thanked her for something.

She stood up, started walking over. “So are you… still going to look for that something you were talking about?”

Ymir jerked her eyes towards the horizon. “I guess.” She frowned. “Why?”

“Well. I thought maybe…” Historia smiled, shook her head, breathed. She stood in front of Ymir, looking up at her. “I’d like to come with you, if that’s alright.”

Ymir’s face changed instantly. She hardened, her eyes widening and her hands clenching. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t want to stay here anymore.” Historia looked down at her hands. They could paint her a place not so unlike her garden, if she ever needed them to. Maybe it’d be less of a cage. “And I want to go with you.”

A sharp sniff dragged her eyes upward, and she saw misty eyes trying and failing to hide behind bony fingers. Historia stood up quickly, frowning as she drew closer. “Is something wrong?”

Ymir looked away quickly. She rubbed at her eye with her hand, and then she stared at it. The skin of her fingers flaked and peeled away, falling and fading like snow. “I…” Her voice shook, as did her body. But her lips twitched towards a small, cautious smile. She hung her head, eyes falling to the ground. 

“I’ve only ever dreamed of somebody saying that.”

“Oh.” Historia thought she might cry too for a moment, but it never happened. She smiled instead. “Not anymore, then.”

A long, shaky breath. Ymir squeezed her eyes shut, raised her hand and shoved away her tears. “Yeah.” Hesitation saturated her voice, but it started bleeding away slowly. “Yeah. Not anymore.” She stood up straight, and when her eyes opened they met Historia’s. “Thank you.”

Historia chuckled, then shook her head. “Thank you.”

A small snort of a laugh was the response. Ymir shrugged, then peered towards the horizon. It was a quick flicker of a thing, but there was a smile on her face. “Are you ready, then?”

“Yeah. I think I am.” It dawned on Historia that she… really didn’t have any idea what she was saying. What it meant to be ready. But, well.

She felt like she could figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I said something like "the rest of this is totes gonna be here in a handful of days" and then I remembered that I was an incompetent hack and spent like three weeks not working on this at all. Which I maybe don't mind, since it means fresher perspectives 'n that, but I wish it'd been intentional. Apologies for the delay, if you're one of the, um, a person who's actually reading this. 
> 
> But thank you for reading, if you did make it this far. I feel like it's still a little rough around the edges here and there, so please do feel free to criticize, mock or scorn at your leisure, so long as it's either articulate or frothing.


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